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by TearStainedAshes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hand porn, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, POV John Watson, Poetry, Romance, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5978029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearStainedAshes/pseuds/TearStainedAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a story teller, but he doesn't always write blog posts about Sherlock. Sometimes he writes poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this from a prompt given in my advanced poetry class and it said to describe a person's hands. Literally all I could think about were Benedict's / Sherlock's hands, so I decided to write about them from John's POV. 
> 
> This has not been workshopped or edited at all, so if you see something that seems off or typos or anything that doesn't really work, please let me know. But if there's something that you just absolutely love, let me know about that too! Any and all constructive feedback is welcome.
> 
> ~TSA
> 
> [4/16/16] I somehow posted this work twice? So I deleted the other and left this one up. Sorry to anyone who bookmarked or left kudos on the first. But now you can do it again with this one :) ~TSA

Long, nimble fingers  
Perfectly manicured nails  
Scars and calluses make them  
look rough, but his hands are  
actually quite soft; like the sands  
of Hawaiian or Jamaican beaches.

He has the hands of an artist  
or a musician, strong and beautiful,  
yet he elects to use them for something  
more practical: science.

His hands remain steady as he now  
lowers a pipette into an Erlenmeyer  
flask. Always so precise in his measurements.  
Always so careful, slow, tender.

I must have spoken my thoughts aloud.  
He’s looking at me now, speaking to me.  
I don’t hear a word he says.  
He’s cupping my face now, his hands  
smoothing over my skin, the calluses  
scratching lightly against my cheeks.  
His hands have now become those of  
a lover, soft and gentle, loving and caring.

His hands are passionate,  
analytical thinkers.  
His hands are striking, soft,  
strong, sentimental.  
His hands are home.

I reach up to take his hands in mine,  
whisper his name, and lean forward to  
kiss him. Later, we show each other with  
our hands just how much we love one another.


End file.
